


Games We Play

by AliceInKinkland



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Backstory, Bad Pick-Up Lines, Character Study, F/F, Fluff and Angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-02
Updated: 2016-06-02
Packaged: 2018-07-11 18:23:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,129
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7065118
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AliceInKinkland/pseuds/AliceInKinkland
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five times Root played chicken and won.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Games We Play

**Author's Note:**

> Content warnings: Canon-typical violence. Canon suicide threats/attempts. References to torture. Spoilers up to 5.09 (but not 5.10, mostly because I started this fic before it aired). Root being a cheesy romantic (honestly this whole thing is so cheesy and extra but so is Root).

**1.**

“Do you know why you're here, Samantha?”

Root shakes her head. The guidance office is sticky-hot. She sinks into the imitation-leather chair and it burns the backs of her thighs.

“Your friend Hanna told me about a game you showed her recently, a game she was worried about. I'm worried about it too, Samantha.” Mr. Doyle draws air quotes around the word “game,” his fingers closer to Root’s face than she likes.

Root says nothing, so Mr. Doyle continues, “She told me the two of you went to the train tracks last week. Is that right?”

Root nods. 

“She said you showed her a game where you stood on the tracks and jumped off when a train was coming. Samantha, that's a very dangerous game. In fact, it's not a game. You know that, right?”

“I didn't let her play.”

“She didn't want to play. Samantha, she was very scared.”

Every time Mr. Doyle says “Samantha,” it sounds less like a name, much less Root's.

“Are you angry that Hanna told me about the game? It's OK to feel that way. But she did the right thing. There are some things you have to tell an adult about. And when someone wants to hurt themselves, that's one of those times.”

“I wasn't trying to hurt myself.” Root taps her fingers on her knee, practicing keystrokes. Space + Enter + Up + Down + Space. She's not angry at Hanna, not really. She and Root don’t always understand each other, but Root still doesn't know what she would do without her.

“Do you really expect me to believe that? Samantha, there are people who can help you, but you have to cooperate.”

“I wasn't trying to hurt myself! I knew I could jump in time. I'm good at that kind of thing.” 

Mr. Doyle purses his lips. He shuffles the papers on his desk in front of him. “Maybe you could try applying those talents in gym class, mmm?” He smiles, which means he thinks he’s making a joke. Root already regrets trying to explain.

Root hates the way she feels like crying. She wishes, not for the first time, that there were a cheat code to stop tears. Everything feels damp--her skin, her eyes, the muggy June air. She taps her fingers faster.

“You’re not in trouble, Samantha.”

“It kind of seems like I am.”

“Samantha. This is exactly what I mean about not being cooperative. I think I’m going to have to speak with your mother. Is the phone number we have on file for her still the correct one?”

Root shrugs. The answer is no, their phone has been disconnected for six months, but she has a sense she’ll feel more of this same slippery regret if she shares anything more.

“I see she didn’t sign you up for the breakfast program this term. Is she doing better?”

Root weighs her options: several possible lies, several possible partial truths. She swallows. “Can I bring her the sign-up paper?”

“I’m afraid she has to come in and sign you up in person. She can do that when she comes to talk to me about your behaviour, OK?”

Root nods. She digs her nails into the skin of her knee. Maybe that’s the cheat code to stop tears.

That evening, she goes to the train tracks by herself.

**2.**

It’s important, when you’re in the business of killing people, to pull the trigger yourself every once in awhile. You need to stay in practice, make sure you won’t ever hesitate. This is one of Root’s rules for herself. Root has worked hard at not caring about taking lives, and part of that hard work involves giving herself a refresher course every so often. It’s why she’s the best in the business.

Root’s latest job is intriguing enough that she decides to make it the occasion of her overdue foray into the field. Ten targets, spread across the state of California, all key plaintiffs in a class-action lawsuit against a fraudulent medical insurance company. Her backer, an also somewhat fraudulent direct competitor, hasn’t asked for anything fancy, just ten deaths, no witnesses; just some news stories to drum up business. A few shots to the head, a few looped security feeds. 

The catch with jobs like this, of course, is that each kill raises the stakes of the next one. You have to do them one by one to maximize the headlines, but each time one of the victims hears about another death, they get anxious, beef up security, go into hiding. Their houses are watched more closely by police. Each time you level up the game gets harder.

That’s Root’s favourite kind of game.

Root is currently on round number seven: Max Tailor, high school chemistry teacher in Oakland. His internet search results indicate that he had eight different news outlets open in different browser tabs this morning, all coverage of the death of a fellow plaintiff the day before. Root watched him via his webcam as he read each article. He kept biting his lip. 

Max has installed three panic buttons, and Root disables each in turn from a Starbucks down the block from Max’s house. She sets up a loop of the security cameras, clones his phone to remotely unlock the door code, and sets off, laptop and gun stowed safely in her purse. She re-did her nails this morning, and she admires them as she taps at her phone to begin the camera loop. 

Max’s front door opens at another tap of her phone, and she slips inside softly, only to be greeted by the barrel of a gun. Root swears internally, but manages to draw her own weapon. This is why it’s good to practice these things.

“I called 911 when I saw you step onto my lawn,” says Max. 

Root tilts her head to one side. “How sweet, making sure they’d find your body quickly.”

Max’s face screams panic, but he holds the gun steady. “I won’t let you get away with this.”

“So shoot me.” Root can hear sirens. She’s cut this one closer than she should have.

Max looks at his finger, hovering over the trigger. He twitches it, and Root lunges, her wrist twisting his gun hand away from her, the toe of her boot catching him in the back of the knee. He fires a shot but it goes wide, embedding itself in the wall above the front door. He’s off balance from Root’s kick, and Root takes advantage of his moment of confusion to knock the gun out of his hand and knee him in the groin. He and his gun fall to the floor, two weights slamming in unison against the tiles.

Root makes it quick--one to the head, one to the chest. The head shot is messier than she’d like, a little off from the centre of his forehead, but regardless, Root can tell he’s not going to make it. She slips the gun back into her purse. She sprints through the house and out the back door, cutting through his small garden to the next street, where she hails a cab.

On to the next round.

**3.**

“Let's play a game,” says Root.

“You always sound this much like a serial killer?” Shaw pulls the free chair away from the table and straddles it backwards. The move makes Root bite her lip. 

“Oh, Sam, I knew we'd get along.”

Shaw grabs one of the apples off the table and takes a large bite. “You gonna tell me why I'm supposed to hand you over to the CIA?”

“You know as much as I do,” says Root. “The important thing is, we have ten hours to kill.”

“That's the important thing. Right.” 

Root's heart is pounding in her chest. She knows they’re nearing the edge of something, both of them inching closer, daring the other to back away first.

Root stands, and then Shaw is on her feet as well, stepping squarely into Root’s personal space. Root forces her hands to stay at her sides, and grins. 

“What’s your game?” says Shaw, her breath hot against Root’s face.

Root leans closer, and it’s Shaw’s turn to hold her ground. “First one to step back loses,” she says, lowering her voice to a whisper.

“What if neither of us steps back?”

“I guess it’s a draw.” Root leans closer still, her lips nearly brushing against the tip of Shaw’s nose.

“This doesn’t mean I like you,” says Shaw, and then their lips are crashing together, and Root doesn’t care what she just said about calling this a draw because Shaw’s mouth tastes like victory.

**4.**

The moment when Root’s heel slips, when she falters and almost trips, Root swears her heart stops. She rights herself, takes another step, but she’s not quite sure what’s stopping her from collapsing, from tumbling down down down the side of the building and decorating the street below. The sound of the wind buffeting her cheeks mixes with the pounding of blood in her ears, but her implant stays stubbornly silent. Root takes another step, and another. She reminds the Machine of the wind speed. She hears Harold gasp. Her heart is a ragged drum. _Sameen. Sameen. Sameen._

She's never wanted to play chicken with God.

When it finally happens it sounds like white noise at first, or like something faint, something beyond Root’s limited hearing. But then Root takes a minute to process the chatter: a street address, the location of an ambulance, and one quick ascending tone sequence. Root turns her body without thinking, and lets Her guide her off the ledge with the sound. For one brief moment, She is in her head again. Then: silence.

“Thanks for playing,” says Root. The security camera blinks at her from the corner of the rooftop. 

**5.**

Root and Shaw hold their guns to their own heads for what Root thinks is at least forty minutes. She makes a note to ask the Machine later. Root’s eyes feel strained from barely blinking, staring straight at Shaw. Shaw returns the stare. Root wonders what calculations Shaw is making, and how they differ from Root’s own.

Shaw lowers her gun first, finally, and Root offer her a strained smile. They each flick their safeties on, two sharp clicks in the still night air. Root doesn’t move towards Shaw--she’s not sure either of them are ready for that again just yet. Instead, she stands still but lets herself stare.  _ Sameen.  _ Root feels something glowing, bursting, desperate in her chest.

Shaw sinks down onto the grass, and Root follows, sitting cross-legged in the dirt. 

Root breaks the silence first. “So what, your plan was to just take out every Samaritan operative, one by one? You weren’t even gonna leave any for me?” She attempts a pout, although her heart is still pounding.

“I didn’t know if it was safe. I still don’t.”

Root nods. She thinks of her own experiences with torture, on both sides of the equation.  _ Amazing how easily the human brain can be manipulated. _

7000 simulations. This is something she’ll never be able to understand.

“I can’t promise you’re safe, but I can promise this is real. And I’m going to keep trying to prove it to you.”

“Don’t you dare do something like that again.”

“Right back atcha, sweetie.”

Shaw closes her eyes and lies down in the grass on her back. Root isn’t sure, but she thinks she looks a bit more relaxed. Root lies on her side, her head turned toward Sameen. Shaw touches her fingers to her neck behind her ear, and Root semi-consciously fiddles with her implant, mirroring the motion without quite being sure what it is.

“I didn’t expect our reunion to go like this,” Root says.

Shaw turns to face Root, curling her body up protectively. “Me either,” she says after a moment. She looks like she might say more, so Root waits, but Shaw stays silent.

“I missed you,” says Root. “I missed you so much I don’t know how to describe it.”

“I’m hungry,” says Shaw after a beat.

Root smiles. “Ooh, sounds like this could still be a date night.”

“Your pick up lines are one thing I didn’t miss, let me tell you.”

“Sure you didn’t. C’mon, Sameen, I know a place where we can eat all we want, free from prying eyes. Or at least, the prying eyes we’re most concerned with.”

“You better still be talking about food.”

Root stands, grinning, brushing dirt off her jeans. “I’m not the one who went there this time. That was totally you.”

“Food first,” says Shaw, which could mean a few different things. Root smiles. This is, by far, her favorite game to play.


End file.
